


A Quiet Revolution

by Handful_of_Silence



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Mentoring, Aziraphale and Crowley secretly doting on their wayward charges, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Positive influences, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 01:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handful_of_Silence/pseuds/Handful_of_Silence
Summary: After the Apocalypse came, changed its mind, and went, nothing much changed. Except, slowly, very very slowly, some things did.Alternatively: Aziraphale and Crowley are beset by the curious youth of Heaven and Hell.





	A Quiet Revolution

It was one of the many Saturdays following the week the world didn't quite end, and in Heaven, there was talk. One would not have called it gossip, or even rumour-mongering, because these are far beneath any self-respecting angel, but whatever it was had certainly glanced over at those concepts and had decided to flirt with them.

It was going poorly for all involved. Angels, as a rule, weren't very good at gossiping or whatever they chose to call it. This is not because they disliked talking about others behind their backs [1]. This is something that most beings, aside from jellyfish [2], do in one way or another. No, this is because angels, with the shining light and the hallelujahs and the trumpeting from pearly clouds, don't really go in for subtlety in anything they do. This makes it difficult for them to pretend they've not been gossiping when confronted by someone higher up, when that is in fact exactly what they've been doing, loudly and accompanied by effusive hand gestures.

[1. Indeed, it is one of their favourite past-times, aside from singing divine praises upon high and playing bridge.]

[2. God loves all of His creatures, but even He might, if pushed, concede that jellyfish are floaty brainless bastards, composed only of fluid and a single-minded hatred for all beings. Jellyfish, it has been generally thought by all, were a bad decision.]

Their general response inevitably involves, in order: an uncomfortable pause, the angelic equivalent of a furious blush, and a brazenly desperate attempt to change the conversational lane by doing an illegal u-turn. In accordance with these well-worn rules, throughout Heaven there had been a spate of these instances whenever one of the Powers passed by and asked in a way that was definitely a demand exactly what they were doing lingering around chatting. After being lectured for a while, groups of angels waited until their superiors had rounded a metaphorical corner [3] before turning back to the current discussion.

[3. Hell invented corners. This is a well known fact.]

The topic of conversation was the Principality Aziraphale. And his Reputation.

There are invariably different kinds of reputations, and they rely remarkably on how they are said, what is implied, and who is saying them. Ask Gabriel about Aziraphale, and he would have valiantly clung to the party line, voicing passive statements that reflected his deep-seated and boundless love for all his fellow beings while his face put up signposts declaring that that particular road was structurally unsound and full of potholes when it came to this particular angel. Ask Him Upstairs, and he would have smiled fondly, and said nothing else, so no help there then.

If Crowley had been asked about Aziraphale's reputation, he would have verbally waved a hand to that little fiasco with the flaming sword, shrugged regarding the matter of the Anti-Christ, and wildly gesticulated on the matter of his particularly favoured grievances; namely, Aziraphale's prissiness, his penchant for wearing too much tartan which left a cloudy after-image of dust like a Looney Toons racer, and for fussing and cooing over his plants whenever he came to visit, giving them Ideas above their station and ruining weeks of tactically timetabled intimidation.

This matter however, was not about Aziraphale's reputation.

No, this was about his Reputation. [4] Another thing entirely.

[4. A Reputation is rather more quickly earned, more difficult to shift, and is entirely created in the mind's eye of other people. Aziraphale's Reputation had been earned within the last fortnight, and he himself had no idea of its existence.]

–

After the whole sorry affair of the Apocalypse, both Heaven and Hell had carefully and steadfastly ignored the question of what to do about its representatives on Earth. Apparently, according to Michael, they were considering alternative assessments and deliberating before acting rashly. Anyone looking too closely at the situation might be forgiven for thinking that careful deliberation was identical to making it up on the spot, but who is to say.

While everyone didn't know exactly what happened when it came to the events in Tadfield, it was understood that neither agent had acted as they were supposed to, and that this was presumably a bad thing.

After about a month, Hell sniffed, adjusted the lapels on its jacket and concluded sod it.

They sent some people to go and Talk to Crowley.

-

That evening, Crowley arrived in the back room of Aziraphale's shop looking rumpled and slightly sooty. His expression was penduluming like an irate grandfather clock, swinging from being furiously pissed off to being royally narked.

Aziraphale took one peering look at him over his reading glasses, and the Taylor's Vintage Port that had been airing next to two tumblers became a dryer, certainly more surprised, Sauvignon Blanc.

“You're treading in brimstone,” he pointed out the ashy footprints that Crowley was leaving in his furious wake. “I hope you're going to....”

“You will not _believe_ the day I've had,” Crowley hissed, throwing himself down on a chair which yelped with a wooden groan and rushed to make itself more comfortable. Aziraphale knew to close his book and mouth, and settle in.

–

Heaven of course, couldn't be entirely sure on the details of what had happened. While there was something approaching communication between the two sides if one looked at it a certain angle, it was the sort of foot-dragging feckless back-and-forth between two people who feel they should keep in touch but can't for the life of them think of what to say. Like ex's who have committed to remaining friends and who are now regretting it, or extended cousins who leave short birthday messages on each other's public profiles because their parents will keep asking until they do.

What was known was this: two demons went to go and Talk to Crowley. Half an hour later, Crowley had left carrying a fax machine [5], which he had taken to a local Oxfam. Since nobody buys fax machines, since charity shops feel morally obliged to take any old thing donated to them, and since the fax machine had been turned off having received the document but without printing it, one of the demons had been left fuming in the back room of the charity shop for three days until another demon was sent to print him off. The second demon, as the rumour went, had been 'aggressively discorporated' by the combination of violent plant life and holy water, and had since been demoted to the post room.

[5. Go and ask your parents.]

Heaven mused what the next move would be. But it is worth reminding readers at this point that angels do no easily change. It is not in their inherent nature to do so. This has the unfortunate side effect of meaning that while they don't change, they also don't learn from mistakes very well.

Four days later, someone in upper management sent two beings to go and Talk to Aziraphale.

In their post-mission reflection statement, both angels had begrudgingly implied that mistakes might, possibly, under a certain light, have been made. There was some debate on what the first mistake was [6], but the second mistake had almost certainly been making threats – not so much veiled as prominently displayed in a glass case with a neat label – against the demon Crowley.

[6. It was a three way toss-up between presuming Aziraphale wouldn't have a sword; not checking that there was no sword beforehand; and imagining that the former Angel of the Eastern Gate, flaming sword in hand, would meekly submit to whatever they'd planned once they asked semi-nicely.]

And so they had Talked.

It had gone poorly.

–

It is important at this point to mention the general mood in Heaven. It may be a little challenging, considering that the divine plane is beyond the comprehension of most mortals, but let's give it a try.

Imagine you're getting ready for a party. You've put on your best outfit, gone to the hairdressers to sort out those split ends, spent torturous hours in front of the mirror bewailing the existence of colour combinations. Now, imagine everyone you know is going to this party. That you were born, most of you, knowing that this party is going to happen and that it would be the biggest, brightest, best thing ever to have happened since the last Big Best Thing. All the older kids were there at the last one, and they all agreed that nothing but this would be able to top it. Again, try hard and imagine that this party, but not really a party, more of a fight, yes, that's a bit better, imagine a big fight... imagine that this fight has arrived, people have taken their seats, the spotlight is on the ring, everyone's got their best frock on.... only now, it's been cancelled. Without explanation, without a refund for the outfit you bought, or an apology for any trouble caused [7]. And then now, you're left wondering what was meant to be so great about that party, why it was so important if it just got rescheduled, why you'd been excited about it all this time.

[7.You didn't quite imagine it, but look, you tried your best.]

To sum up then, a number of angels, especially those who weren't around right at the beginning, who'd been created into a story already started with two people banished from a garden and a snake slithering away, had questions. Not worries, because that would imply doubt, and that wasn't possible, because well, there was The Plan. But The Plan was all well and good, but there was also Earth. The battleground. Which – aside from fleetingly visiting to spread a bit of divine mercy when they'd nothing better to do, most angels didn't really give a passing thought to.

And then they returned to the topic of Aziraphale, and his Reputation.

Aziraphale had been on Earth for a long time. He'd been thwarting a demon for 6,000 years, he'd clocked in more hours on his time sheet amongst the humans than any of them. And he'd stood shoulder to shoulder with that demon to challenge Lucifer himself, to protect Earth.

He'd told Heavenly representatives to Go Away, and they had. He hadn't Fallen, hadn't even received a written warning.

So maybe he knew a thing or two about all this.

Then a few of the angels had an idea.

–

The forces of darkness might walk abroad at all hours, but the bastions of light are early risers, annoyingly chipper, and have to-do lists they like to have a head-start on by mid-morning.

Two angels walked nervously into a dusty Soho bookshop. A rusted bell dinged their entrance. One of the angels nearly blessed it in their fright, and the other one gave it, and them, an imperiously forceful _shhh_.

As it was half ten on a Tuesday morning, Crowley was still diligently practising the vice of sloth on the dingy sofa in the back room. Aziraphale had left him early, carefully recycling the wine bottles from the night, moving on to making small notations in a notebook in infuriating neat handwriting as he carefully considered Skindle's Price Guide, uh-huh-ing and aha-ing to himself as he went. Next on his half-hearted agenda was to potter around the forest of shelves he'd amassed, trying to sort some new arrivals.

“Greetings?” the angel with the long blond hair called out. She had requested a human form for this task, but shuffled awkwardly in it, feeling it ill-fitting, maybe a size two small.

There was a muffled thump, and then silence.

“We should go,” said the other angel with the short red hair, tugging on the other's sleeve. “Maybe he's not home,” he suggested, with a pinch of hope and a sprinkling of desperation.

A head popped out from behind a stack.

Aziraphale's expression chilled to frosty when he saw he had customers.

It went arctic when he saw who his customers were.

“Are you just browsing?” he said irritably, raising an eyebrow, folding his arms over an oatmeal jumper. “Or can I help you with something?”

Aziraphale said the word _help_ in the same way most people say _no, thank you_ to a telemarketer.

Neither angels had the biological functions which made it necessary for them to swallow, but they did.

“Ac-ctually, yes,” the short haired angel stammered. The angel, whose named was Amox, had found the tiniest flicker of courage huddled somewhere in their ribcage and had coaxed it out, deciding they might as well use it before they were evicted from their human forms. “We, well, we were wondering, if you have the time of course, you seem very busy, no trouble at all if not, bu-but we were wondering if you could... haha perhaps maybe, answer a few questions for us?”

“Only if you're not busy,” the long-haired angel, who was calling herself Foxglove [8], stressed. “We would hate to disturb you, we can always come back later.”

[8. They had been created as Uriel, Seraphim of the Third Order, but in preparation for the visit, they had been insistent that they should choose a human name. They had chosen what they felt would be the most inconspicuous and common-place, and we already know that angels are not really the best at this. In all fairness however to the newly christened Foxglove, this was miles better than Æthelthryth, which had been her first choice.]

Aziraphale blinked. His expression was one of someone who has opened the door to visitors popping round unexpectedly, only to remember that they've left a pile of laundry on the stairs and things to soak near the sink.

His natural instincts towards politeness and mercy won out, but only just.

“Well then,” he finally said slowly. “You had best come in for a cup of tea [9]."

[9. Only Crowley, and now by extension the variety of humans who had been involved in the Apocalypse, was ever offered any hot cocoa.]

–

Crowley arrived at the shop cautiously that evening. The plastic bag dangling from his fingers leaked the smell of something delicious, and in his right hand, he clutched a bottle of wine. He had sensed the increase in divine presence half a mile away, and now was holding the wine bottle as though prepared to lunge and parry with it.

He hadn't been worried. Demons try not to worry as a rule, because it ruins their image. He had parked the Bentley a little less neater than usual, but he still strolled into the shop with the confidence of someone who owns the place, has paid off the mortgage and has their own hat-rack by the door.

He found the three of them in the back room, circled round the rickety table with one leg slightly too short. In its previous life, it had been a cards table, and there was still fragments of green felt at the edging. These days, it served generally as a drinks table, and that was the calling it was fulfilling now.

He spotted Aziraphale right away. He was smiling enthusiastically, his hair swept back in messy ringlets out of his eyes, watching proudly as the long haired angel on the right tentatively tried a sip of whatever was in her glass, and made a ponderous, considering expression that soured into confusion briefly before lightening back to thoughtful again. This was the stock face of an angel who is Trying Something to decide if they like it or not. The jury appeared to still be out for a extended smoke break on this one.

“It's... interesting,” she said politely, putting down the glass. “I can taste the... the grapes.”

“It's swell,” crowed the other one, already tipsy, downing their drink just a tad too fast. “And this one is called....?”

“Reisling.” Aziraphale smiled like an indulgent uncle, and refilled all of their glasses. Crowley thought Aziraphale might be getting soft in his dotage, casting a judgemental eye over the empty wine bottles.

He watched the light play across Aziraphale's hair for a moment, before regretfully acknowledging to himself that he'd have to make his entrance sooner or later.

“Evening, angel,” he went with, striding into the dingy back room. He may have given the entrance a bit more swish and slither than usual, but he figured there was never a bad time to make a good first impression.

His smile showed off his teeth and a tasteful flicker of forked tongue.

The long-haired angel stood up with all the sudden guilt of a child caught graffitting the school desk with a compass, knocking the table as they moved. The short-haired angel made a noise that Crowley charitably classified as a squeak.

Aziraphale's smile grew wider.

“My dear!” he beamed. Then he saw the mess that had been made, the knocked over bottles and spillages caused by the intrusion. “Honestly!” he scolded, gesturing for the mess to right itself. The bottle not only refilled itself, but the table tried on a brand new coat of paint and decided it liked it. It was probable that the angel was a little tipsy as well. “It's only Crowley. Be polite, and say hello.”

“Hello,” came the diligent mutterings.

“Crowley, this is Amox, and this is Foxglove. They're just visiting.”

“Charmed,” Crowley said, wondering with a sinking feeling if he was going to be expected to make small talk. Heaven – Aziraphale excluded – did not exactly breed good conversationalists.

Both angels stared at him with an uncomfortable intensity. Crowley wondered what Aziraphale had been telling them.

Aziraphale clocked both Crowley's unsubtle expression and the cooling bag of food in his hands, and opted to be merciful.

“I think that's our cue to finish up here,” he said grandly with an expansive gesture, standing up and shaking himself back into sobriety. “I do hope you'll both be sticking around for a while?”

“We have to go back,” said Foxglove, with the same tone as a child thinking about school after the Christmas holidays. Then her voice brightened. “Can we visit again soon? And bring some friends?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said distantly, eyeing the takeaway with some interest, and clearly trying to draw the meeting to a close. “Happy to help.”

The angels stood up, wobbled, and pressed Aziraphale's hands in farewell. Crowley had forgotten how touchy-feely angels could be. Aziraphale had clearly forgotten as well, judging from his uncomfortable expression. The angels nodded their heads at Crowley, mumbling their goodbyes to him as they walked out.

“They're politer than the last two,” Crowley said finally when he heard the bell ring shut.

Aziraphale was still looking after them. A frown had traced itself lightly on his forehead.

“The strangest thing,” he murmured.

“That's angels for you,” Crowley said flippantly, sitting himself down on one of the newly vacated seats. “Present company not included, of course.”

Aziraphale hadn't appeared to notice his generous concession.

“They had so many questions,” he continued musing, “About Earth, about the Plan. I've never really seen anyone pay much attention to this old place before.”

“Youthful curiosity, probably,” Crowley said, but Aziraphale looked doubtful. The frown lines were sinking further into his face, and were clearly going to set up tents for the evening if Crowley didn't do something fast.

He held up the plastic bag.

“Can I tempt you to some earthly delights?” he grinned.

“Oh go on then,” Aziraphale replied, a soft smile blossoming on his face.

–

Crowley had thought, hoped, that that would be the end of it.

A week later, he found a gaggle of young angels waiting outside the bookshop. Amox, Foxglove and another three, all still swanning around in their heavenly vestments and looking for all the world like they'd just escaped a costume party. Crowley resisted the urge to cast his eyes heavenward in exasperation. Whoever was in charge of the Earth manifestation permits these days was clearly doing a shoddy job.

Amox and Foxglove were hunched over and examining the cheap cigarette lighter in Foxglove's hands, flicking it on and off with obvious delight. The other three of various shapes and forms were staring with wide eyes at the passers-by and surrounding shops. They were all staunchly ignoring the adult lingerie shop two doors down from Aziraphale's. Apart from one shorter angel who kept psyching herself up before proceeding to give it a series of brief, scandalised looks.

To anyone walking past, the lot of them gave the impression of being stoned out of their tiny minds. As it was mid-afternoon in Soho, no one gave them a second glance.

Crowley approached slowly, both because he was in no rush, and because he didn't fancy being discorporated just because he spooked some fledglings.

Amox and Foxglove saw him first, and didn't flinch. Amox even gave a small wave. For an unsettling flash, he felt fondly proud, and then shook the feeling off with irritation. That would not do.

“What're you lot doing here?” he asked brusquely. “School let you out early?”

Like Aziraphale, the angels seemed to know exactly how to ignore him when they wanted to.

“It's locked,” said Foxglove, pointing at the door.

Not a one of them, Crowley noted, had thought to miracle the lock away. Hopeless, the lot of them.

“You need to knock louder,” he said firmly, bringing out his own key to let them in. He had been wandering this way with the passing thought to inviting Aziraphale out for an afternoon stroll, but because it was clearly Aziraphale's fault he was having to provide aid to his natural enemy instead of the angel, he reckoned he could do with suffering their overzealous company for a few hours. “He's probably on the computer. Make sure to ask him about those, very informative topic. And the internet. He's a real expert on that.”

They bobbed their heads in thanks like grateful Churchill dogs, and filed in. Crowley was in a sprightly mood all day.

His mood didn't hold, because a few days later, he had to deal with another one. He'd been lurking around Victoria Station, waiting for a good moment to put the timetable reader over the platforms on the fritz, when he caught one of the angels, now decked in a ghastly combination of pale pink chinos and a lettuce green sweater, trying to bless the Oyster card reader. They'd clearly tried to get through the barrier, had heard the insistent error message of an invalid card, and they were now getting more and more flustered trying to deal with it. The queue behind them had begun to complain, and someone let out a loudly muttered 'get a bloody move on'.

“Now see here, my good lady...” the angel had responded indignantly, and Crowley knew he'd have to intervene before the idiot caused a scene.

Deftly weaving between a bespectacled office worker and a loved-up couple joined at the hip, Crowley grabbed the angel by the elbow and dragged him off to the side. There, he strictly explained the intricate social rules that governed any interaction in the Tube system, the most favourite of his inventions. With a finger, he pointed out how to top up the card (and seething with exasperation when the angel continued to look clueless, gestured for a tenner which he pressed into the angel's palm), and grabbing a tube map and pushing it into the angel's chest, telling him to study it before he even thought of coming back here. The angel looked like he was about to cry with gratitude, and Crowley warded off the hug he knew was coming by stepping back a pace and folding his arms.

Before he left, he suggested unkindly that the angel try a different colour scheme by comparing his clothes to a prawn cocktail [10]. Just because Aziraphale was a lost cause didn't mean they all had to be.

[10. This failed because the angel didn't recognise the comment as an insult, not because they didn't know what a prawn cocktail was. Aziraphale had already told them all about those, and they were great.]

 After that, well, after that word got around.

And three demons arrived, shifting guiltily on his doormat, and gruffly asking if they could come in and if he could please not mention this to Hastur.

  
–

Understood relatively, the number of non-human beings who had taken it upon themselves to see what all the fuss was about regarding both Earth and its respective agents, was a splash in a pond caused by a small pebble. However, Aziraphale and Crowley had, over the years, become so used to each other's company that any direct imposition by either of their sides was taken as a personal affront [11]. The visitations they were suddenly subjected to therefore, felt more like a splash in a puddle caused by a large boulder. Neither of them were naturally suited to this level of socialising.

[11. Aziraphale would never admit this, and would sniff primly if Crowley's comments dared to resemble an implication. After any sort of demonic visitation in the days before the Apocalypse, Crowley often sacrificed a well-meaning potted plant which was clearly trying its hardest to appease his foul mood. Aziraphale was far too proper to do anything as petty, and instead subjected any unwary patron to his shop to a Borgesian labyrinth which they'd struggle to navigate for a few minutes before Aziraphale's vexed mood had calmed down enough to feel guilt.

Sometimes, on a very fortuitous day, an angelic visitation coincided with the arrival of some serious men in dark suits who suggested things related to selling the shop and wouldn't it be a shame if something were to happen. On these rare occasions, Aziraphale was reminded of why he'd been given a shiny flaming sword in the first place.]

Solidarity in the face of this onslaught was wordlessly agreed on. If any of the angels were looking for Aziraphale, Crowley would feign ignorance. If any of the demons came lurking in search of Crowley, Aziraphale would shake his head and sigh apologetically, implying within that sigh a great many sadnesses on their sorry behalf. This was quickly discovered to have a poor success rate; the angels would eagerly ask Crowley if he could help, and they'd fix him with that wide-eyed hopeful look that made something inside him twist and curl up in guilt. If they couldn't find Crowley, the demons skipped the middle-man and went straight for bothering Aziraphale instead.

The demons hadn't known at first what to make of Aziraphale, naturally mistrustful of angels as demons are wont to be, and they weren't prepared for dealing with a frumpy angel resistant to their natural wiles. By happy chance however, one of the demons expressed a passing interest in one of Aziraphale's collection of demonic grimoires, and Aziraphale opened up like a bookish flower despite himself. They then worked out that by feigning ignorance and asking nicely, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel morally obliged to help them [12].

[12. This was the excuse that Aziraphale had given Crowley, but Crowley had his doubts. For one, Crowley used that trick all the time, and its effectiveness was variable. For another, Crowley had definitely overheard Aziraphale advising one of the younger demons on the best flea markets to peruse for good antique books. Crowley suspected that Aziraphale, who enjoyed explaining things to people in the tone of a mild-mannered 19th century schoolmaster, liked having people want something of him. Liked the sensation that helping them provided him. Liked watching his wayward proteges flourish, knowing he'd had a hand in it. Deep down, Crowley suspected this of himself.]

 -

  
Of course, it would be impractical, and more importantly intolerable, for so many divine or occult beings to be residing in a single city. Indeed, London, as the weeks progressed, saw both a perceptible rise in charity donations and general do-goodery, and a startling increase in the number of traffic jams and people suddenly inspired to adultery.

The party line, at least from Heaven's increasingly irate memos, was to incite goodness within the human heart with a deft touch. Outright miracles were to be discouraged, and had been for the last four hundred years. There was not, the memos bitingly reminded its readers, to be any behaviour that suggested the influence of the divine in the lives of everyday folk. Crowley had laughed when Aziraphale had told him this, because London was indeed one of the few cities where a divine intervention might occur, only to be followed by an unimpressed stony glare that could wither nearby trees, and generalised grumbling for the delays it would cause to the transport network.

Early on, Aziraphale had tried his best to nip this in the bud, particularly with the angels. He'd advised them all, quite sternly, finger wagging and with an air of being disappointed that he was required to say anything at all, that while it was all well and good spreading a gentle miasma of good will to all men, etc, etc, miraculous inventions were only in the direst circumstances, and following the proper submission of paperwork. He said the last bit very quickly, with the self-consciously hypocritical attitude of someone who has been putting off his own paperwork for about a decade. Aziraphale did not mention this, because he did not want to be a bad influence.

To their credit, after a few early hiccups (cars being divinely encouraged to brake to avoid hitting pedestrians, drunk people with bruised egos being prodded to ignore whatever the slight was and go and sleep it off, the weirdo at Speaker's Corner whose ramblings were not so much leaning against alt-right rhetoric as making out with it who all of a sudden found himself struck dumb [13]), there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Indeed, Aziraphale's warning regarding divine excesses had only been broken the once, when the angel Hasdiel caused a minor public incident in Hackney [14].

[13. That one had been Aziraphale, but he wasn't up for admitting it.]

[14. Having found herself in the Chesham Arms a few spritzers down and filled with good feeling toward all men, a room full of Tottenham supporters had experienced a flush of angelic fervour when their side scored a winning penalty at eighty-eight minutes. This flush, being rarely felt by humans, was regrettably almost identical to the shock of endorphins involved in the human orgasm. This made the entire atmosphere both crushingly awkward, and after a minute, totally empty as people quickly downed their pints and evacuated with the dignity they had remaining.]

However, some distance was for the best. So after some strong, increasingly obvious hints from Aziraphale, rounded off and varnished with a non-too-subtle fuck off from Crowley, the young angels and demons had decided to go exploring on their own. A few angels stayed in England, moving up to the Midlands and the North [15] but most moved to different climbs to adventures unknown.

[15. If anyone had been watching closely, this was obvious from the two – nigh on miraculous – surprises of Coventry being announced City of Culture (indeed, quite why an angel of the Lord would settle in Coventry is anyone's guess) and Newcastle United moving up almost overnight to the top of the Premier League. The angel in question didn't even really like football, it was just difficult to be swayed in the face of so much dedicated hope and belief if you weren't practised enough.]

And then it was back to normal. Crowley and Aziraphale celebrated by going to the Ritz, but an offhand comment from the angel as they tucked into a particularly fluffy cheesecake that it'd be quiet without the young ones meant that Crowley had to suffer through the freight-train of a revelation that actually, he'd quite enjoyed having the sprogs around in an odd way. But of course he was happy they'd gone, he reasoned harshly to himself, schooling his expression from the mope it was turning into. They'd been annoying, and they'd had so many questions about such stupid things, and he had no idea what they were teaching them these days but they clearly knew nothing. No, he was just worried that they'd get in trouble and somehow disrupt his lifestyle here. He most certainly hadn't got attached.

When Aziraphale mentioned a few days later that some of the angels had sent letters addressed to them, the bubbling, warm sensation in his chest was most definitely heartburn from last night's Chianti.

–

Things change slowly on Earth, and even slower in Heaven and Hell.

Crowley couldn't help wondering though. It was a character flaw, he supposed.

All those angels, coming down from their clouds, getting involved, failing to really understand what made humans tick but giving it a cheerfully optimistic good go regardless. Trying out wines and walking through marketplaces, starting up their own strange little collections, sending letters to a small bookshop in Soho asking after the Enemy and his car. All those demons, coming up from the pit, loosening their ties and experimenting with fashion in colours other than black and dark grey, learning how to enjoy the simple things., ever so often sending their ill-favoured mentor an exotic plant [16], or even once, a book for the Enemy to store in his shop.

[16. Complete with a scrawled message declaring that the plant needed to learn some manners.]

Made you think.

He voiced this to Aziraphale one evening. They'd decided to mix things up, so Crowley was lounging serpentine on his sofa, channel flicking and admiring whoever had had a hand in tele-shopping. Aziraphale had got it into his head that he would learn to cook, and had attempted valiantly for several hours to rustle up something sumptuous for dinner. Aziraphale was neither talented at cooking, nor patient enough to start at the basics, so he'd gestured the burnt pots and overcooked vegetables away with a huff and muttering bitterly, manifested them both a nice filet mignon in a red-wine sauce.

“What do you think?” Crowley broached the subject.

“About the multi-grater?” Aziraphale asked, glancing at the telly with a disinterested look, still stewing in the manner of someone intent on getting real mileage out of their woes.

“Of course,” Crowley intoned sarcastically. The sarcasm didn't as much go over Aziraphale's head as deflect off him entirely and hit the opposite wall. Some of Crowley's newly acquired delinquent plants shuddered before trying to look hard in front of their mates.

“It's more economical, I suppose,” he ventured, and Crowley sighed.

“Not that, angel. What do you think about the fact we've somehow become responsible to a bunch of fledglings on their gap year?”

“Oh,” replied Aziraphale, with the put-off tone of someone who had been intending on avoiding the topic entirely and forever. “That. Well. It must be a good thing, surely. Positive influences and all that.”

“Have your... have you heard anything from your lot about it?”

“Not a peep.”

“No scolding about leading the young ones astray?”

“That's your purview, dear,” Aziraphale said haughtily, and then, he carried on more delicately.

“No... no word from yours?”

“Not a single strongly-worded email.”

“Maybe, they're ignoring it [17].”

“Maybe.”

[17. It would have tickled Crowley and ruffled Aziraphale to know that both Heaven and Hell had most assuredly not been ignoring it. The matter of the Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley had been foremost on the agenda of many a performance review and inter-departmental meeting. On observing the minutes of these meetings, the biggest complaint was that the number of angels and demons requesting on-the-ground assignments had meant an increase in the amount of paperwork and permits to be signed off, and there had been some seditious muttering about concepts such as overtime. The Archangel Michael had then got on his soapbox for an extended period about young angels and their lack of tradition. Aamon, Marquis of Hell, had equally taken time out of his busy schedule to rage about it. The Archangel Gabriel had even mentioned it, tentatively with the Boss, in a tone that didn't make any suggestions but desperately wanted to. He had received an enigmatic smile and a handwave, which solved nothing.]

“Are we doing the right thing, do you think? Encouraging them like this?”

Crowley let the question air a little before answering.

“The way I see it,” he said carefully. “Allowing them to see it all as it really is down here, and then make up their own minds, is the only way they'll learn. We bought time but the War will still happen. There'll be another Apocalypse one day, angel, the Big One. It would be nice to know some more wordly forces were involved in making the decisions when that day came. “

“Hmm,” Aziraphale mused, settling in closer to Crowley and changing the channel to a nature documentary. They let the topic flicker out for another night's fire.

“By the way,” Aziraphale interrupted Crowley's absorption in watching a lion cub trying to stand off with a large and pissed off heron. “Foxglove sends us her regards from Berlin. Apparently she ran into Astaroth in Bavaria and they've set up in Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg.”

Aziraphale sounded smug and proud, as though he'd had something to do with it. Crowley's heart did a small belly flop in his chest.

“Set up as in...”

“Exactly.”

“Well.”

“Quite.”

“She'll have a time of it. Astaroth's still growing out of her fire and brimstone phase.”

“She can handle it,” Aziraphale said confidently. Crowley smiled.

“Of course she can.”

Aziraphale's weight was heavy and warm against his shoulder. The filet mignon was perfectly bloody, and the wine chased it lazily down. Crowley kept on wondering, but pushed it to the back of his mind.

“More wine, angel?” he offered, picking up the bottle.

“Don't tempt me,” Aziraphale said smiling, holding out his glass.


End file.
